


Fill Me Up, Buttercup

by comradecandycorn



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Belly Kink, Feedism, Other, Stuffing, alcohol tw, beware all ye who enter: here be weird kinky shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-01-15 18:31:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12326520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comradecandycorn/pseuds/comradecandycorn
Summary: Enjolras likes watching Grantaire eat.





	1. Chapter 1

“Oh my God,” said Courfeyrac. “How?”

“I live like a perennial flower, darling, soaking up sunlight in the spring—that is, making good use of my friends’ sympathies when I can get them—and sleeping underground in the winter—that is… uh, living on ramen and instant rice,” Grantaire purred. “It’s a system that works well for me, being both charming and broke.”

He was grinning his broken-toothed grin as he sat down with his fifth plate. It was piled as high with food as his first four. Grantaire had been sitting out on the bench in front of the English building, smoking a cigarette, when Courfeyrac and Enjolras had strolled by on their way to the dining hall. Much to Enjolras’ frustration, he’d spotted them, caught up, and was soon as impossible to shake free as Gorilla glue sticking two fingers together, his arm linked through Courfeyrac’s, the two of them chatting a mile a minute. Enjolras had hoped they’d lose him on the steps of the dining hall, and was even halfway through biting out their goodbye, when Courfeyrac had offered to swipe Grantaire in with his card. Because of course.

Now, Grantaire was shoveling food into his mouth like it was going out of style. He’d made his way through what must have been four cups of mac and cheese, three scoops of mashed potatoes with gravy, six chicken strips, a large helping of scrambled eggs, two half-plates of French fries, nearly a roll of sushi, and four slices of roast beef. He now had what appeared to be a small mountain of stir fry.

He dug into the noodles with a twirl of his fork, and put it into his mouth with an exaggerated moan, shutting his eyes in pleasure and leaning back in his chair. Courfeyrac laughed. Enjolras, on the other hand, bristled, stirring uncomfortably in their seat. They’d been nursing a cup of black coffee, no sugar, for half an hour while Grantaire ate. And ate. And ate. And Enjolras couldn’t stop watching him. It was so annoying, all of it: his enthusiasm as he shoveled it down, the satisfaction on his face, his stupid _sounds_ —

“Mm, God,” Grantaire muttered with his mouth full, shaking his head as he scooped up more noodles. “This is fuckin’… _mmph._ ”

Courfeyrac laughed again. Enjolras twitched and picked up their cup of coffee to hide a blush, sincerely hoping that no one else was watching this.

They were, though. Like a trainwreck, they watched Grantaire finish the whole plate.

He leaned back in his chair with a groan when he was done, throwing his head back and laying his palm on his stomach. Grantaire always carried a bit of extra weight, a little belly pooching out from under his ribcage that his recent acquisition of a binder had made more noticeable, his shirts now settling most tightly lower down than they once had. He lovingly referenced himself as having a “dad bod,” which Bahorel had joked—accurately—was more of the beginnings of a beer gut. It was quite clear that Grantaire didn’t mind, especially now, as he lay back and rubbed his palm over it. His belly was visibly distended, his “Paddy’s Irish Pub” T-shirt stretched against it, wrinkles forming in the fabric between the soft spots where it lay flush against his skin.

Grantaire sat up with a swing of his hair, his face turning down to the table as he did so to hide the suppression of a huge belch. He swallowed, making a soft, “Ah,” sound and pushing his hair out of his face. His hand went back to his stomach, rubbing, his face halfway between pain and satisfaction.

Then, after a moment, he pushed back his chair with a squeak and grinned.

“I’m gonna go get dessert,” he said.

Courfeyrac buried his face in his hands.

Enjolras’ mouth was bone-dry.

\---

They didn’t stop thinking about it. They thought about it all the way home, after they and Courfeyrac left Grantaire on the steps of the dining hall; they thought about it as they walked home, their knees growing increasingly weak by increments, as they turned the key in the lock of the apartment with shaky hands and Courfeyrac walked up the stairs after them; they thought about it as they went wordlessly to their bedroom, shut the door, and collapsed into bed.

What the actual fuck.

Their thigh muscles were twitching, their jaw aching, the space between their legs—

Cautiously, they slipped a hand under the waistband of their jeans, settled their fingers in the right place, and—

Oh God. Oh God, what the fuck.

They thought about Grantaire’s soft moans as he ate, the look of happy agony on his face as he finished his second slice of pie, his stomach pressing out against his T-shirt’s straining fabric. How tight his jeans must have felt. How difficult it’d been for him not to burp out loud by the end, and the furrows in his brow as he’d tried to swallow it down.

They thought about sitting in Grantaire’s lap as he ate, legs around Grantaire’s hipbones, Grantaire’s tight belly pressing between them, Enjolras pressing up into that belly and hearing Grantaire moan with a combination of pleasure and pain—

They came inside of minute, their head pushing back so hard that their shoulder-blades lifted off the mattress.

\---

It’d been some weird combination of coincidences, Enjolras thought by the end of that month. It’d been a fluke. They’d been about to start their period when it’d happened, and it’d fucked up their hormones. They would have thought _anyone_ was hot doing _anything_ on that day—it’d had nothing to do with Grantaire, and certainly nothing to do with the way he’d been eating.

Still, their eyes avoided the bench outside the English building, avoided the steps of the bright purple house where Jehan, Feuilly, Bossuet, Joly, and Chetta lived with Grantaire; their eyes avoided the back table at ABC meetings—until one night when everyone got a bit too roudy.

It was Bahorel’s fault, really. Or, at least, Enjolras blamed him. He’d won a basement jiu-jitsu match he’d been expecting to lose that day, made a small sum, and bought two pitchers of beer for everybody, which was stupid. He shouldn’t have bought beer, and he especially shouldn’t have bought two pitchers of it. Enjolras didn’t drink, Combeferre was hoping to study later that evening, Jehan and Marius didn’t like beer, Joly didn’t eat gluten, Courfeyrac was watching his figure and sipping vodka-cranberries, Feuilly was working that night, Chetta was behind the bar, and Eponine was watching her younger siblings. That left Bahorel, Bossuet, and Grantaire to finish two pitchers of beer—which they could do, easily, but which hadn’t been Bahorel’s intention.

As anyone could have guessed, Grantaire finished about a pitcher and a half by himself. It wasn’t enough to get him actually drunk, not nearly, but his eyes had taken on that wry, shiny glimmer.  More frustratingly to Enjolras, however, right in the middle of Combeferre reading out the names of the victims of hate crimes against trans women of color this year, proving an ineffable point about the rampancy of transmisogynoir and its deadly effects—right during _that_ of all things, Grantaire was seemingly unable to stifle a long, low burp.

Combeferre didn’t break stride, but Enjolras looked back to see Grantaire’s eyes widen in half-amused embarrassment as he pulled up the neck of his shirt to cover the bottom half of his face, flushing. His other arm wrapped around his middle, covering his stomach. Bahorel snickered.

Enjolras looked back at Combeferre, ignoring the stab of _something_ at the bottom of their ribcage, the heat tingling through them. Fuck. _Fuuuuck_.

There was some shuffling behind them, some scrapes of chairs, but they didn’t look at the back table again until the time came for them to stand up and address the club again, at which point Grantaire and Bahorel were at the bottom of a third (fourth?) pitcher of beer.

Grantaire was smiling at nothing now, leaning back in his chair with his legs spread, fresh glass in hand. He toasted Enjolras as they glanced at him. Then he tilted his head back and took a long, long drink, throat bobbing, and half his glass then empty when he brought it down. He wiped foam off his lip and smiled.

He had a sweatshirt on today, so it was impossible to tell if his belly was jutting out again like it had in the dining hall, but he looked soft and drunk and comfortable, his legs apart as if he were so full that sitting with them together would be too much effort, and as he drank more, Enjolras imagined the bubbly liquid going down his throat, imagined it meeting what was already likely sloshing around in his stomach, filling him up even more, the tightening of his stomach against his waistband. They wondered if it was uncomfortable to drink that much beer that quickly, whether the skin of his belly felt taut to Grantaire, if it would be taut to the touch—

Enjolras cleared their throat, glaring down at their notes.

“Our budget could do with some supplementation this month if possible,” they began. “I have a few ideas that I’ll list off to you, but if anyone has any others, I’m sure we’d all be glad to hear them…”

\---

“Hey,” said Enjolras, stopping in front of the bench.

Grantaire coughed on his lungful of smoke, blinking.

“Hello, Enjolras,” he said when he recovered, tapping ash from the end of his cigarette onto the sidewalk and grinning upwards into the sunlight, where Enjolras’ small shoulders were squared in silhouette. “What… uh, what’s up?”

“Do you want to go to the dining hall with me?”

Grantaire’s eyebrows furrowed. He took a drag off his cigarette.

“I don’t have a meal plan,” he said. “But we can go to the library if you’d like. What do you need, Dear Leader? New posters? I was under the impression we’d nixed the bake sale.”

“No,” said Enjolras, confused. “No, I just wanted to see if you wanted to get lunch. I’ll swipe you in.”

“You—” Grantaire frowned. He looked bewildered. Enjolras was equally so.

They blushed. Was this weird? Maybe it was weird. But, of course, Enjolras was just doing this as a favor to an acquaintance. By Grantaire’s own admittance, he lived off ramen noodles and rice. Enjolras just wanted to make sure that he was getting enough to eat. It was what you did. Especially with friends-of-friends. It wasn’t weird. It wasn’t anything weird.

“Oh. Uh, okay,” said Grantaire. He hesitated a moment, and then got up, swinging his backpack onto his shoulder. “Sure. If that’s alright.”

“Yeah, of course,” said Enjolras, relieved. And they started to walk, Grantaire following a step behind.

They went in silence all the way to the dining hall, and waited in silence in the line to be keyed in, Grantaire looking at his phone, Enjolras looking anywhere except Grantaire.

When they got inside, Grantaire coughed and said, “Uh, I’ll follow you. Wherever you want to go.”

Enjolras had never seen him look so uncomfortable. This must have been weird. It was definitely weird. Shit, shit, shit… But there was no getting out of it now, so Enjolras picked a table and set their bag down. Grantaire did the same.

“Food?” asked Enjolras, as if that wasn’t the whole reason they’d come, and he nodded, following them up to one of the entrée lines.

Enjolras was sweating even before they got into the stuffy little alcove where the food was served and, as they picked up a plate, their chest twisted. This had been a terrible idea. Grantaire’s fingers—strong and olive-skinned—caught up a plate too in Enjolras’ line of vision, and Enjolras shuddered. Grantaire was here. They should make small talk. That was what people did when they got lunch.

“So,” they asked, half-turning, “how was your week?”

They couldn’t meet his eyes, but they could feel his searching their burning face.

“It was good, dude. How was yours?”

“It was good.”

That was as far as their brain could take them, and silence fell. Fortunately, Grantaire was more skilled at conversation than they were.

“I have a presentation for my Old English class next week,” he said. “I have to memorize the first eleven lines of _Beowulf_.”

“Oh yeah?” Enjolras asked.

“ _Oh_ yeah. It’s fuckin’ torturous. I don’t know what demonic spirits possessed me to take an Old English course when I can’t even remember normal English half the—no, wait—” He paused, grinning. “I do know exactly which spirit possessed me. His name is Evan. Evan Williams. I was hammered when I signed up for my classes this semester. Which is the best idea, really, because signing up for classes is a very special kind of hell, a layer reserved only for those who buy into the capitalist propaganda machine which churns out reassurances that if one pays for an education, one might be able to better oneself—but also the worst idea, because then you sign up for classes like _Old English_.”

Enjolras was laughing now, shaking their head.

“I thought you liked Old English!” they said, putting a scoop of a dish that claimed to be vegan jambalaya, but looked more like rice and peppers, onto their plate. “You’re _always_ quoting Shakespeare. I thought—”

Grantaire made a noise like a kicked dog.

“Please tell me you didn’t just call Shakespeare Old English,” he said, covering his face with his hands.

Enjolras frowned.

“What?” they asked. “Is Shakespeare not Old English?”

“Oh, God help me,” said Grantaire, spooning a frankly alarming quantity of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “God help me. This lunch had better be worth sitting across from someone who thinks Shakespeare is… Oh, gravy, old friend, please soothe my aching soul.”

Grantaire’s soul needed, apparently, an awful lot of gravy. And two hamburger buns piled high with pulled pork. And a side of broccoli.

“Broccoli?” Enjolras asked.

“Don’t look at me like that, Dear Leader. A man’s gotta have a few healthy habits, after all.”

But when they went over to the soda machines, where Enjolras got a glass of water, Grantaire poured himself a Coke, no ice.

They sat down together at the table, and as Enjolras pulled their chair in with a series of little squeaks, Grantaire tucked right in to his mashed potatoes. He shoveled about a quarter of them into his mouth before he bothered to pull in his chair and, once pulled in, got right back to work with a grunt of appreciation.

Enjolras tried very hard not to watch him, but found it impossible and settled merely for remembering to take bites of their jambalaya to keep up appearances.

What was wrong with them? This was wild. It made no sense, that they should be so attracted to… this.

Grantaire was eating his stupid pulled pork sandwich like he might die if he didn’t inhale all of it within thirty seconds, turning it around to catch all the drips of grease before they could fall. Despite his speed, he was a very neat eater. Maybe he just didn’t want to waste anything.

He decimated the broccoli in the same way, nodding along with his bites like he was listening to some silent music, the look on his face like this _broccoli_ was the most delicious thing on earth—then he turned back to the second sandwich and it was the same thing: the same little nods, the rapid bites. No food got preferential treatment. He just seemed to like… eating. A lot.

When the last scrapes of mashed potato were gone from his plate, he pushed back his chair again and winked at Enjolras, who was still picking at the edges of their rice.

“Back soon,” he said.

He was, with French fries and ketchup and two slices of margherita pizza. Like some unholy dream, he piled the two slices on top of one another when he sat down, and ate them together. His jaw worked hard against the layered crust, but it took him less than three minutes to get through the pizza sandwich, eating the crusts individually.

“Mm,” he said on the second. “I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t like the crusts of pizza. It makes no sense to me. You see these same people eating rolls like nobody’s business, but attach that same amount of bread to the end of a slice of pizza, and nobody wants it. Why? I ask you, Enjolras, really. Because crust is delicious. I might go so far as to say it’s _as_ good at the part with cheese and sauce. People are out here wasting pizza, undermining crust’s untapped potential. That’s what I say.”

He shook his head, swallowing a huge piece, and then started in on his French fries.

Next came a bowl of broccoli cheese soup.

“More broccoli!” Enjolras smiled.

“Oh, this hardly counts as broccoli, my friend. It’s really just cheese and cream heated up together with some florets added in.” He blew on a spoonful, then slurped it up. “Fuckin’ delicious all the same.”

He ate three-quarters of the bowl voraciously, and then seemed to hit a bit of a wall. He leaned back in his chair with a sigh, and Enjolras sat up a little straighter, surreptitiously, to peek down at Grantaire’s hand coming up to rest on his belly.

Oh, shit. Fuck. He looked so hot like this, the gentle slope of his stomach under his palm, visible in outline beneath the baggy folds of his flannel. His face was slightly pained, but had none of the satisfaction of before—in fact, it was annoyed. He seemed to be silently berating his stomach for betraying him by being full already. He rubbed it, back and forth, pressing into the softness underneath his shirt—

Enjolras’ eyes widened and they looked quickly down at their plate. This was so creepy. They needed to stop thinking about Grantaire like this. He wasn’t some kind of object that they could just watch, that they could just feed for the sake of their own weird, sick—

But, then again, they weren’t _doing_ anything to Grantaire. He was doing it all himself, and enjoying it, too.

And, speak of the devil, there he went again, slurping down soup like a machine until the bowl was empty.

“Stir-fry!” he proclaimed then, pushing back his chair. He rapped the table with his knuckles as he left.

Fuck. Enjolras was fucked.

They followed him in pushing back their chair and went for the coffee machine, just for something to do with their hands. The room was sweltering, their jaws too tight, their cheeks hot as if everyone knew, everyone could _see._ As the steaming black liquid dripped into the mug, they looked back at the table where, sure enough, Grantaire was sitting again, shoveling down forkfuls of noodles.

Enjolras walked back weakly, coffee clutched between both their palms.

Within the next twenty minutes, Grantaire managed the plate of stir-fry, three slices of some unidentified white fish in lemon sauce, some of the vegan jambalaya, another massive helping of mashed potatoes, and two slices of chocolate cake. He now leaned back and sucked frosting off the tines of his fork.

“Man,” he said, shaking his head, eyes widening down at the table. “Think I gotta tap out.”

“You, uh…” said Enjolras, and then said the only other thing they could say right now: “Wow.”

“Y—” Grantaire stifled a huge belch, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Yeah.”

He shifted again, his face scrunching up as he looked down at himself. His flannel was tight now, buttons pulling strips of the fabric close to his skin. His belly was noticeably rounded out beneath, jutting further forward than seemed natural given his unremarkable frame. It must have been almost unbearably tight against the waistband of his jeans—in fact, as he squirmed, Enjolras saw that he was trying to push it lower with his thumbs, hooked under the sides of his flannel, to give his stomach a bit more room. It seemed like a fruitless endeavor without undoing the button.

When he conceded defeat and looked up, grinning wryly, at Enjolras, there was a trace of a blush on his face.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m a disgusting hedonist pig, but I’m sure that’s not news to you.”

Enjolras frowned.

“I don’t think you’re disgusting,” they said.

Grantaire laughed.

“Hedonist pig, fine,” he said. “But thank you, Enjolras.”

“No, stop it,” said Enjolras. “I mean it. I don’t care. You like to eat. That’s fine. In fact, I think it’s great. I mean… you know. Some people have a hard time eating, and… I don’t know.”

“Children starving in Africa?” Grantaire grinned. “You sound like my dad.”

“That’s not what I meant. I just mean… I don’t know. It’s not a bad thing to eat. We need it to survive.”

“Of course,” said Grantaire. “But being the utilitarian you are, I’d assume you’d hate anyone… well, doing _anything_ excess.”

“No, it’s not like that here. Especially because I know you have a hard time— Well. I just mean, you should eat as much as you want. In fact, I wish you’d eat more.”

The moment this left their mouth, Enjolras wanted to throw out their hands and snatch the words out of the air before they could reach Grantaire’s ears, but they couldn’t, of course—it was too late. So instead they went bright red, which was exactly the _wrong_ response.

Grantaire looked bewildered, his confusion only growing more as he watched Enjolras flush, saw their eyes get huge.

“What?” he said.

“I—” Enjolras stuttered. “I just meant… I don’t know.”

Grantaire leaned in, brow softening. One of his hands reached forward on the table like he meant to grab Enjolras’, but he seemed to think the better of it, instead settling his fingertips down an inch away.

“What’s wrong, dude?” he asked. “You’ve been nervous this whole time. And, I mean, you asked me to lunch just out of the blue, which is… Well. Is something going on?”

“No,” Enjolras said. “I’m fine.”

Grantaire peered at them. His eyes were always so gentle: huge and brown and wet, often red-rimmed, slow to move and as soft as a basset hound’s. Enjolras found themself feeling safe looking back into them, despite their usual dislike of direct eye contact. It was hard to feel awkward around Grantaire; that was something Enjolras had never noticed before, but felt keenly now, a small warmth spreading up in their heart as Grantaire watched them, quietly, sincerely.

“Is this about what I said to Courfeyrac last time about living on ramen noodles?” he asked. “Because I was just joking. Mostly. I mean, I do eat a lot of ramen noodles, but I’m not, like, _starving_ or something, you know?”

“I know,” said Enjolras.

Grantaire leaned back.

“So, it is about that,” he said. “You know, I don’t have an awful lot of pride, Enjolras, but I did kind of hope… I mean, you don’t have to _feed_ me, dude.”

“I want to, though,” Enjolras said, and then shook their head, blushing hard again. “I mean… No, I just mean—”

“Are we friends, Enjolras?”

“What?” The question took them off-guard. Grantaire was looking at them hard, his forehead scrunched up, his chin resting on one hand, an index finger up by his temple. Enjolras floundered.

“Are we friends?” Grantaire asked again. “Because I don’t want you thinking that you owe me shit just because I’m some sad kicked puppy who follows you around. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you swiped me in, and I’m glad you tried to have a conversation with me and all, but just because I’m… I don’t know. Just because I hang around doesn’t mean you’ve gotta fucking take pity on me and buy me food and stuff, because that’s just kind of pathetic. Like, even if I was _actually_ starving, I think I’d rather starve than be your charity case.”

“No,” said Enjolras. “No, no, it’s not like that.”

Grantaire looked skeptical.

“What’s it like, then?”

Enjolras took a deep breath in, and let it out very slowly. Grantaire was waiting.

“I like watching you eat,” they said.

The dining hall spun.

“You… what?” Grantaire looked bewildered. “So… are you just worried I’m not eating enough during the week, or what? Because that’s kind of back to the whole charity case thing…”

“No, no.” Enjolras leaned into the table, hiding their eyes between cupped hands. “I’m kind of… No. God. It’s weird. I’m sorry.”

Grantaire went silent. Enjolras didn’t dare look up. Their whole body was burning. And then, after a long, long, long moment Grantaire made a soft noise of understanding, leaned back in his chair, and… started laughing.

“Oh _my_ God,” he chuckled, and then his laughter got louder, a roar that must have attracted some kind of attention from the nearby tables. “ _Oh_ my God.”

Enjolras buried their face in their arms on the table, too embarrassed to move, to breathe.

“Enjolras, Enjolras.” Grantaire’s hand jabbed at their shoulder until they peeked up. He swiped the last of the purple frosting off his plate with his finger and brought it to his lips, sucking it off, closing his eyes and letting out an exaggerated moan of pleasure. He stayed like that for half a second, licking his lips, and then opened his eyes with a wicked grin and winked.

Enjolras covered their head with their arms, their face redder than a tomato as Grantaire cackled.

“Oh my God,” he wheezed. “That’s fucking _great_. That’s amazing. Dude, you could have just _told_ me. Dude—” He poked at them until Enjolras looked up again. His eyes were bright. “It’s okay. Chill out. It’s not that weird.”

Enjolras made a face that set Grantaire off laughing again.

Oh God. It was all worth it to see the way he clutched his full belly as he laughed, doubling over in discomfort as his breaths jostled it, seeing the way it swelled even further, threatening to pop the buttons of his flannel, as the muscles in his abdomen lost control.

“Ahh,” he said, when he’d recovered from his bout of giggles, rubbing at the top swell of his belly, where it must have rubbed against his binder. “No, seriously. Don’t worry. It’s all good.”

Enjolras ran a hand through their hair, desperately, and watched as Grantaire’s eyes tracked the movement.

“You don’t think… I mean, I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to say anything, in case it made you uncomfortable. I guess it’s kind of creepy…”

“Maybe to someone else,” said Grantaire, with a shrug. “But I don’t give a fuck. I mean, uh…” He grimaced, looking genuinely nervous for the first time. “I mean, if you want to, uh, ever kind of… experiment with that, you know, I’d be down. If that’s something you want to… you know.”

“Yes,” said Enjolras, immediately, and then blushed again. They were starting to feel like some kind of fourteen-year-old girl in a romance novel, with all this blushing. “I mean, if you want to.”

Grantaire blinked, a smile breaking out across his whole face.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’d like that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty much entirely unedited. I figure y'all don't care much, though, because I doubt anyone thinks this is highbrow literature here.

It was two days later, a Friday night, and Enjolras was practically vibrating with a combination of nerves and giddiness, pacing around the apartment they shared with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, wondering idly whether they should put on some music. It was pure luck that the two Cs had vacated the apartment tonight, Courfeyrac having somehow roped Combeferre into participating in an all-night danceathon that Enjolras had had the good sense to turn down right off the bat—but the minute Enjolras had realized Combeferre would be out all night as well, they’d texted Grantaire. They had then called the pizza place and ordered three pies.

This was insane. Who did this kind of thing?

The went over to the speaker again and turned it on, scrolling through their phone. What kind of music said, “Hi, welcome to my home; I promise I’m not a creep even though I want to stuff you full of pizza until you can’t move”?

There was a knock on the door before they could decide. Enjolras scrunched their eyes shut, took a deep breath. They could do this. They could do this. They routinely made radical, incendiary speeches to whole crowds of people. They spoke up in class. For fuck’s sake, they’d been _arrested_ and continue to yell while in handcuffs. This was nothing. This was just Grantaire, who they saw every week, who had been a source of little more than irritation to them before this whole thing had begun.

Enjolras let out their breath and opened the door. There, indeed, was Grantaire.

He had torn-up skinny jeans on, and a tight grey tank top with lace at its hems. His shoes were his usual leather combat boots, but everything else looked like it might have been borrowed or, possibly, just old—maybe pre-transition clothes. In fact, Enjolras realized, the thing that was different was that they’d never seen him in clothes that weren’t baggy, weren’t purposefully chosen to hide his frame.

Grantaire grinned, giving him a two-fingered salute off the forehead, and Enjolras caught a waft of a sharp smell—he’d been drinking. Of course he had.

“Hello, Dear Leader,” said Grantaire, rather more mildly than usual. “Might I come in?”

Enjolras stepped back and waved him forward. They shut the door behind him and gestured him up the stairs to the kitchen, following close on his heels.

Grantaire looked around at the kitchen, at the three plates lined up in the drying rack, at Combeferre’s herbs—sage, basil, chives, oregano—growing in their jewel-toned pots on the windowsill, at Courfeyrac’s collection of Yankee Candle jars in the center of the table.

“Shit,” he said. “Well, this is the cleanest place I’ve been in living memory. Should I take my shoes off?”

“Yes, please.”

“Alrighty, then.”

One shoe off, he peeked up at Enjolras, who was watching him, and winked.

“So, what do you got for me?” he asked, taking a more teasing tone. “I only had ramen noodles for lunch, you know.”

Goddammit. If Enjolras was going to do this, they were going to have to stop blushing so much.

“I ordered pizza,” they said. “It should be here soon.”

“Uh-huh.” Grantaire popped back to his socked feet, Enjolras now eye-level with his shoulders. He hooked his thumb in his pocket and raised an eyebrow, smirking down at Enjolras. “And what are we gonna do when it gets here?”

Enjolras scrubbed a hand across the back of their neck.

“Um,” they said. “We’re gonna eat it. I mean… you’re gonna… I already had dinner.”

“Mm-hm.” Grantaire passed over to the table, pulled out a chair, and plopped down into it. He put a fist under his chin, his bright eyes positively impish. “So, it’s all me, then. How much pizza did you get me? ’Cause I’m real hungry. Did you get garlic knots?”

“No, uh, just the pizza.” Enjolras tugged at the hem of their shirt. “Did you want garlic knots? I can, uh… call and—”

“No, no, honey; I’m just fucking with you.” Grantaire was shaking his head, seeming delighted by Enjolras’ discomfort. “What kinda pizza did you get for me?”

“Uh. Margherita.”

Grantaire’s grin widened.

“Oh, you really _do_ like watching me eat, huh? You were paying attention the other day. You remembered my pizza order.”

Enjolras squeaked.

“I mean… Yeah. I—yeah. I just knew you liked it. So, I mean… Ahhh…”

“How much did you get? One pie or two?”

“Um,” said Enjolras, bright red. “I got three.”

Grantaire roared with laughter. He took his chin off his fist and leaned back, looking down at his stomach. He grabbed at his love handles with both hands, the soft bit of chub he had pooling in the center by his waist band. It wasn’t that much, but it was there.

He stood up, still pinching the little rolls of flesh, and crowded up near Enjolras. Enjolras swallowed hard, tearing their eyes off Grantaire’s stomach to look at his eyes before finding they were unable. They fixed on a spot on the wall.

“Oh, my Dear Leader,” Grantaire purred, leaning down by their ear, by their throat. His scratchy voice tickled. “Three pies? Am I not fat _enough_ for you?”

“You… you’re not…”

“Would you like me to be?”

“I—I don’t know.”

Grantaire reached out and grabbed Enjolras’ hands, tugging them forward by fishooking their indexes together. He grazed Enjolras’ knuckles over the center of his belly, then settled them, palms down, over the place where it rolled out over his waistband. The flesh against the stretchy tank top gave way under Enjolras’ thumbs, their palms pressing inward against it, soft and supple. Grantaire sighed, his nose grazing the side of their head. He was warm all over, hands and stomach and whiskey breath.

“I’ve really let myself go in college,” he said. “I used to be a dancer, did you know that? I was a ballerina in high school. It was awful. My parents made me do it up until the day I turned eighteen and left. My mom was a dancer. They wanted me to follow in her footsteps. Be a little lady. Wear a tutu. But I always felt like a bull in a shop of porcelain dolls around the other girls, like some kind of space alien.”

He laughed, wriggling closer to Enjolras so that his gut pushed against their own flat stomach.

“I don’t even want to think about what I’d look like trying on one of my old leotards now. It’d get stuck halfway up.”

Enjolras’ throat was dry, suddenly. They rubbed their hands along Grantaire’s sides, feeling him, the solidity of him, his body pressed up against theirs.

“If you feed me three whole pizzas, I’m gonna be huge,” he said. “Would you like that, Enjolras?”

“Yes,” they confessed. “I would.”

“And what if I was still full tomorrow morning, but I kept eating anyway, and what if I came to the meeting still stuffed so full, and you knew it—”

 _Fuck_ , thought Enjolras. There _was_ a meeting tomorrow.

“—but I brought some snacks along despite all that and ate them _all_ in front of you? In front of everyone?”

“… _fuck_ ,” said Enjolras, out loud this time, their knees suddenly so weak that they had to press their forehead into Grantaire’s collarbones to keep from keeling over.

“What if I keep doing that? What if by next time we do this, this shirt doesn’t fit anymore?”

He rubbed up against them, all of his yielding body so close to Enjolras that it was unbearable, _right_ under their hands—

“Would you like that?” he asked.

“Ye—yes. I would. I… I would like that. I, uh—”

But their stammering and Grantaire’s laughter were interrupted, conveniently, by a second knock on the door. Enjolras jumped away, darting for their wallet on the table. Their legs felt like Jell-O as they turned, nudging Grantaire instinctively out of view of the open kitchen door, went down the stairs to the front door, and answered it.

“Three margherita?” The delivery guy held up the bag. He looked bored. He didn’t seem to have shaved for a few days. Enjolras didn’t know why, then, they blushed so hard.

“Yeah,” they said, fumbling with the cash. “Thanks.”

“Hello!” said Grantaire’s voice, brightly, from the top of the stairs, as Enjolras was taking the pizzas.

The delivery guy looked up from counting his cash.

“Hi,” he said, and then he turned around and left, leaving a very flustered Enjolras and giggling Grantaire in his wake.

Enjolras shut the door.

“You’re a degenerate and the pizza guy knows it,” Grantaire teased, blocking their way back into the kitchen. Enjolras dodged him.

“He does not.”

“So, you admit you’re a degenerate?”

“Please,” Enjolras groaned. “Shut up.”

They opened the box on top.

“ _Mmph_.” Grantaire rocked backwards on his heels. “God, that smells good.”

Enjolras thought it smelled like hot cardboard and greasy cheese, but they didn’t want to ruin the moment. They slid a hand under the crust and scooped up a slice.

“Where are your plates?” Grantaire asked. “I’ll get one ou— _oh_.” He grinned at the hot slice Enjolras had stuck, almost teasingly, in his face. He took a huge bite off the end.

“I’m so proud of you,” he laughed with his mouth full. “Little Nervous Nelly taking control.”

“Shut up,” said Enjolras again.

“Fuckin’ make me.”

Grantaire came forward to press his body against Enjolras’ again, his hands on their hips, pinning them to the stove. It was easy after that to feed him the rest of it, bite by bite. He wolfed down the slice like he was ravenous, like he’d never eat again, taking new bites while he was still chewing the last. He licked the sauce off his lips between Enjolras’ insistent shoves of the slice against his mouth, both of them snickering all the while, and then, when the last of the crust had disappeared, he took Enjolras’ fingers in his mouth and sucked them clean, too.

“Mm,” he said. “Mm, keep going, now; c’mon.”

So Enjolras did, as fast as they could, stacking two on top of one another like Grantaire had in the dining hall. A bolt of warmth shot through them when Grantaire took the first bite, shut his eyes, and _moaned_.

“So fucking good,” he said.

He ate these just as hungrily as the first, taking no breaks, no pauses even seemingly for air. He pressed up against Enjolras so hard that they had to hold the pizza nearly over their shoulder, listening to Grantaire’s soft moans right up against their ear.

He finished those and moved onto the fourth and fifth slices. These, too, were scarfed down with no troubles, but Enjolras could feel Grantaire’s stomach starting to flesh out between them, feel some of its softness start to harden out as it filled.

When these slices were gone, Enjolras reaching back to grab the sixth and seventh, Grantaire leaned his upper body away, still gripping Enjolras’ hips, and turned his face down. He hiccupped, swallowing a burp. His stomach—now starting to stretch the knit pattern in the tight fabric of the tank top—jumped.

“Mm,” he said.

“Oh,” said Enjolras. “So, you make fun of me for being embarrassed in front of the pizza guy, but you’re too embarrassed to burp?”

Grantaire cocked an eyebrow at him.

“You’re—” It came up again, and this time he let it out, long and low. He sighed, his stomach relenting just ever-so-slightly against the fabric as some of the pressure went down. “Uh. You’re really one kinky fucker.”

Enjolras grimaced. Grantaire laughed.

“Caught you,” he said. “Now, feed me more pizza.”

Enjolras was all too happy to oblige. These slices started out at the same rapid-fire pace but, by the end, Grantaire was starting to slow down a bit, taking his time chewing. He got up to the crusts and then closed his eyes, close his lips against Enjolras’ insistent pushes.

“Mm, hang on,” he said, and then belched again, softer. He turned his face down. “You got anything to drink?”

Enjolras put the crusts down on top of the box, looking around with a little grimace.

“Huh,” they said. “Well, I don’t really drink, but…”

“No.” Grantaire laughed. “No, I just mean water or something.”

“Oh!” said Enjolras. They laughed, too, taking their arm from where it’d been around Grantaire’s wait. “Wait. Hang on. I forgot. I’ve got something.”

They went over to the fridge and reached to the space beside it, where a reusable shopping bag sat upright, waiting. They pulled out a two-liter bottle of coke.

Grantaire cackled.

“Oh God,” he said. “Oh, okay, so in other words, I’m fucked.”

“I mean.” Enjolras shrugged. “You can have water if you want.”

“Absolutely not,” said Grantaire. “But I’m gonna have to sit down soon, I think, if you’re gonna do _that_ to me. Do you have a couch?”

“This way.” Enjolras padded out through the darkened doorway by the fridge. Eagerness leapt in their chest at the sound of the carbonation hissing when they opened the bottle. Grantaire followed them.

They turned on the lights and put the soda on the coffee table.

“Sit,” they said to Grantaire, gesturing at the plain black couch, and Grantaire sat, obedient. “I’m gonna go get the pizza.”

“Hurry back now, darling,” said Grantaire, innocently, reaching for the soda.

Enjolras took their time, sucking in a deep breath in the kitchen. The smells of hot mozzarella and sauce, greasy cardboard, the dab of cologne Grantaire must have had on—it was all too much. This was crazy. This was—

Nope. They were going to stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it right now. They went over to the kitchen door and locked it. They picked up the boxes and went back to the living room.

Grantaire was lounging back on the sofa, one arm sprawled across its back, the bottle of coke between his spread thighs. A significant portion of it was already gone. Enjolras raised their eyebrows at him.

“You’re never gonna make it through these—” they said, raising the boxes with a meaningful look at his belly, which was already significantly distended. “—if you keep drinking that so fast.”

Grantaire took his hand off the back of his couch to rub the heel across the top of his stomach, pressing hard into it, and let out an enormous belch. He lay his head back, looking relieved.

“You just _try_ me,” he said to the ceiling.

“I will,” said Enjolras, sitting down with the pizzas. They folded their sock-covered feet underneath themself, and pushed both the remaining crusts in Grantaire’s face.

“Eat,” they said.

Silently, Grantaire ate, right out of their hand, kissing their fingertips when he was done. Enjolras pulled their hand away—they had the next two slices ready in their other.

“No breaks for you,” they said. Grantaire would have laughed if he could, watching them getting into it now. As it was, he grinned around the pizza being shoved into his mouth.

Nine slices. Ten. Before the eleventh crust, Grantaire turned his face into his chest and shook his head at them, groaning.

He was bigger now than Enjolras had ever seen him before, his stomach so rounded out that it no longer held any trace of the soft rolls it usually had. It was huge, jutting painfully out from under his ribcage, sitting right in his lap, pressing against his thighs as he leaned down, clutching it. The tank top was stretched to its capacity and, when he sat up again, rode up, exposing his belly button. It was a hard, angry circle.

Grantaire burped again, clutching hard at his stomach, hefting it up toward his chest as he leaned back, groaning, and Enjolras noticed that the waistband of his jeans looked to be biting hard into it, leaving deep red marks against the dark skin.

“Hey,” Enjolras said. “Not to be weird, but, um…”

“No offense,” Grantaire gasped, “but if I had some kind of objection to ‘weird,’ I wouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah.” Enjolras giggled a little. “Well. Um. You can take off your pants if you want.”

“Oh,” said Grantaire, letting his stomach drop gradually, slipping it out of his fingers. It jiggled. He burped again, deeply, covering his mouth with the inside of his elbow. “Ugh. Yes, the word you’re looking for is ‘presumptuous.’ You’re not being presumptuous. I’m dying to escape this denim prison.”

He fumbled with his hands against the swollen skin, feeling around for the button, trying fruitlessly to see over his tummy.

“Here,” said Enjolras, and hopped off the couch, settling down on the floor beneath him. They moved the soda bottle and took Grantaire’s hands from him, laying them palm-down on the sofa.

“You don’t have to do anything, okay?” they murmured. “Just sit still.”

Grantaire’s belly looked huge from this angle, puffed out over his waistband, his tank top riding further up with each shallow breath. Enjolras sat up on their knees and put their fingers to it. It was warm, their fingers cold, and Grantaire gasped a little at the contact on the sensitive skin. Enjolras pressed a kiss to the space under his belly button. It was still soft. Room for more.

They traced their fingers down, slowly, and Grantaire let out a soft whine. They had to hook their fingers under his belly, its weight pressing down on their knuckles, to pull the fabric close enough to get the button undone. With a little effort, the button popped open and Grantaire’s stomach plopped right out into his lap, forcing the zipper down. Grantaire sighed, laying his head back. He let his abdominal muscles go slack, letting his stomach swell out even farther, the skin tightening.

Enjolras was so fucking wet that they were shaking.

They leaned forward and nuzzled their face against the load of flesh, feeling it with their nose, their lips: the warmth, the weight, the taut skin and the juxtaposition of soft layers of fat over the hardness of a stomach full to bursting…

It seemed that Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh even despite his situation. He sucked in ragged breaths between giggles, trying not to grab at his painful stomach because Enjolras had told him to sit still.

“You wanna stay down there, oh Dear Leader?” he asked. “You want me to just keep shoveling down the pizza on my own while you grovel at my feet?”

Grantaire might have meant it as an irony, but Enjolras blinked up at him.

“Yes,” they said.

Grantaire shook his head at them, feigning weariness.

“If you help me get these pants off,” he said, “I’ll do anything you want.”

Enjolras had forgotten about getting the pants all the way off. They started to tug. Grantaire gave a little squeak, reaching for his underwear before it could be snatched clean off.

Boxer-briefs. They left his thighs bare, the skin of them sticking immediately to the skin on his stomach. Enjolras was open-mouthed, the jaw prickling—quite honestly, they were possessed by the crazy urge to bite every inch of him.

“What do you want me to do?” Grantaire asked, watching their rapt expression.

“Eat,” said Enjolras. And they splayed out a palm along the side of his belly, sliding their fingers under the lacy hem of the tank top.

Grantaire ate. He finished the two crusts in a shoving of fingers and a minute or two of rapid-fire chewing, and started in on the twelfth and thirteenth slices.

The break seemed to have down him some good, and he charged through the first half of this second pizza with renewed energy. Enjolras’ hand stayed still, feeling the tightness under Grantaire’s skin grow as the pizza disappeared. He grabbed the fourteenth and fifteenth slices valiantly, and got halfway through these before he had to stop again and catch his breath. He leaned back and let out a soft moan, lifting a hand to push up the tank top. It went easily up to his chest, and he put a hand, tenderly to the top of his belly where it jutted out under his ribs. He was huge, bloated like a tick gorged on blood, and his stomach pressed down heavily on his thighs. Enjolras skimmed the hot, sensitive skin with the tips of their fingers and Grantaire whined again, his eyes pressed shut.

“Enjolras,” he breathed.

“Yes.”

“Harder.”

A bolt of heat shot through Enjolras’ midsection. They splayed their palm out over Grantaire’s stomach, testing the waters, smoothed it over. Then they pressed the heel of their palm down, trailing from ribs to bellybutton, left, right, up again, and down—

Grantaire let out a deep, satisfying belch. He lay back a bit, pressing into Enjolras’ hand with a moan.

“Oh God,” he said. “That feels so good. Oh—”

He burped again.

“Oh God.”

Grantaire picked up the other halves of these slices and started eating again, grunting into the cheese and crust as he went.

Enjolras felt, honest to God, like they might pass out if they didn’t get some kind of friction _down there_ soon. They weren’t sure that they’d ever been this turned-on in their life.

Unthinkingly, they opened their mouth and put their teeth to the tense skin of Grantaire’s belly, sliding them down over his bellybutton, down to where their still remained a bit of softness, down onto his thigh. Grantaire twitched, making a soft sound of surprise—but when Enjolras looked up at him, he didn’t seem displeased in the slightest. He looked, in fact, a bit turned-on himself, his lips half-parted and his eyes glittering.

For a moment, he looked at Enjolras as if he were about to say something, sucking in a breath—but instead he just nodded decisively to himself, shut his mouth, and picked up the last slice in the second box.

He folded it in half and ate it in giant bites, as fast as he could. It seemed like he was trying to finish it before he could talk himself out of it. When he _had_ finished it, with a huge swallow, he leaned back again and sighed. Enjolras’ hands were still glued to his rounded belly, rubbing away the discomfort. Grantaire pressed into them, shutting his eyes, looking blissful and pained all at once. He let out a soft moan.

“I’m so full, Enjolras,” he whispered. “I don’t think I can eat any more.”

Enjolras dug their fingers into his flesh, a gentle yet deep massage. There was unyielding tightness beneath; Grantaire was stretched to his limits. Enjolras leaned in to press a kiss to the space above his bellybutton and Grantaire squirmed, hiding a smile in the crook of his elbow which nevertheless crinkled his eyes.

“That’s okay,” Enjolras soothed. “You did so well.”

Grantaire’s eyes were on them as they trailed their hands up and down his body, worshipping him, worshipping the heavy expanse of his stomach, the way it pulled at his skin, the way it pressed into his thighs, its soft chubby undersides where the food had not yet had a chance to settle. Their hands were light one moment, almost tickling, reverential—the next moment firm, pressing in on the organs, rubbing into the stretched skin, rearranging for more room.

He leaned back and let the sensation wash over him. Enjolras’ hands. _Enjolras’_ hands. On him. On his ugly body—some of the ugliest _parts_ of his body—in this vulnerable position. Because he was, truly, ridiculously vulnerable. He wasn’t sure that he could have stood up without help in this state. He felt huge, heavy, exhausted, and his midsection would have been nearing agony without Enjolras’ beautiful hands… without those strong, slim fingers kneading away at him, traveling down, down, down… and then, maddeningly, unfairly _up_ again over his belly.

And the odd thing was, he liked it. He liked being teased this way, even if the teasing was likely unintentional. Here he was, entirely at Enjolras’ mercy, ready to anything for them, and all they seemed to want to do was to rub his belly. Which was fine by him. In fact, it felt… it felt really good. Who wouldn’t enjoy being touched, being worshipped? Who wouldn’t enjoy the validation of such an embarrassing and personal act, like eating too much, being put on display like this and _adored_ for exactly what it was? Who wouldn’t—

A long, painful belch tore through him. Grantaire caged a moan inside his chest; his boxer-briefs were soaked through, his thigh muscles taut, his clit rock-hard, and he wondered if Enjolras knew, if they felt anything similar.

Their hands trailed over his stomach, their forehead pressed into it. Golden hair spilled onto the sensitive skin, tickling. The tips of their fingers rubbed into him, aching, glorious.

Grantaire didn’t ask them. Not that night. It was too perfect to ruin, watching them on the floor beneath him, trembling, their socked toes pressed to the floor and heels caught under their skinny haunches. He just let his heart race every time their nose, their lips, their eyelashes brushed his distended belly.

He felt disgusting. He felt loved. Usually, he only got one of the two.

He fell asleep sometime after that, lulled under by the weight of two margherita pizzas in his belly, by the half-fifth of whiskey he’d had before this, by the hum of the radiator, but mostly by the ebb and flow of Enjolras’ small hands.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and yall thought i was dead !
> 
> it's a short one, friends. where's the swing? i've gotta get back into it.
> 
> i should edit more but im drunk and this isn't being read for its literary merit

The first time it happened alone, it wasn’t Grantaire’s fault. It really wasn’t.

Jehan had gotten a Saturday off from work—and they _never_ had a Saturday off from work—and so Jehan and Grantaire had spent the entire morning cuddled up under a quilt on the couch, smoking frankly inadvisable amounts of weed and watching taped recordings of Jeopardy off of Bossuet’s parents’ OnDemand account.

Around noon, Jehan had declared it Soup Time and set Grantaire to work chopping potatoes and onions. Boiled up with lentils and mushrooms, with Jehan’s famously excellent palate for spices and, well, maybe a smidge of the munchies thrown into the mix, it ended up being fantastic. So fantastic, in fact, that Grantaire had four huge bowls of it. With half a baguette. And two beers. Well, maybe it was more than a smidge of the munchies. He ate himself into minor distress, really.

Feeling hot and restricted, Grantaire moved out from under the quilt with Jehan after putting his spoon and empty bowl on the coffee table for the final time. He lay back into the arm of the couch and groaned, putting hand absentmindedly to his stomach. It felt soft and full under his sweatshirt, pushing up against the fabric.

It had been four days since his rendezvous with Enjolras and the thoughts were still fresh on his mind. Their slim, cold hands on him. The reverential gleam in their eyes. The pleasure of being _that stuffed_ and still looked at like that, still touched—being given permission to tip headlong into hedonism and being not denigrated but _adored_ for it.

Grantaire, warm and sleepy with soup, stifled a burp in his elbow. The skin of his belly twitched under his palm. He rubbed it once—back and forth—as Enjolras had, the heel of hand pushing in. And he was suddenly, almost inexplicably, overcome with the urge to get up, step into his bedroom, and jerk off til he saw stars.

He didn’t. He cleared his throat, crossed his legs, and tried to pay attention to the next Jeopardy answer. Something about frogs. He didn’t know it. Neither did any of the contestants.

“The parotoid gland, y’all! C’mon. The parotoid gland!” Jehan cried at the screen.

“What is,” said Alex Trebek, “the parotoid gland?”

“I told you,” said Jehan, woefully, to the contestants.

“You’re the real champion, Je,” Grantaire told them, brushing past their knees on his way to the kitchen.

“Where are you going?”

“Mm, getting some chips.”

\---

He managed about three-quarters of the bag of Tostitos and another beer before he had to tap out, admitting defeat. He sat back on the couch, careful not to jostle his stomach too much. It was tight and painful, almost nauseatingly so. He didn’t think Jehan had even noticed.

He put his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt and laid them surreptitiously over it. The gentle weight of them soothed the ache somewhat, but he had to pull one out within moments to cover a long, unavoidable belch with his elbow again. It released some of the pressure in his tight, painful gut but not nearly enough to make him comfortable. He didn’t dare squeeze down on the flesh that moved under the fabric with his other hand—but he wanted to. God, he really wanted to.

He waited in agony until the episode was over, feeling as though he were about to spill right out of his skin, and then got up and padded off to his bedroom with a glass of water, making an excuse to Jehan about taking a nap.

God. Even walking hurt. He could feel the skin struggling to support his massive, stuffed gut with every step, trying not to bounce up and down. It was so fucking heavy. He shut his bedroom door, practically waddled to his bed, and sat down gingerly with his glass of water on the desk beside him.

Finally.

He stripped off his sweatshirt first and looked down. He could have whistled. It really was impressive. Almost alien. His skin was stretched taut over his stomach. It jutted out so far from his ribs that, sitting down, it was approaching a ninety-degree angle. There was a firm central lump up top where he figured most of the food was right now, working its way lower into softer, rounder excesses that pooled over the waistband of his sweatpants.

God, he’d really gained some weight, hadn’t he? Gone was any trace of the ballerina physique. He was shaping up to having an actual beer belly—and it felt fucking incredible. Masculine. Like his own. Even so, his usual eating habits weren’t enough for today’s abuse. He took the heel of his hand and pressed it into the tightest part of his belly, giving it a gentle rub back and forth. The relief made him sigh, and he leaned back a little, stretching out. The movement drew up a deep, rumbling belch which took him almost by surprise.

He thought about Enjolras asking him to do it out loud.

Then he thought about their hands, how good their cool fingers would feel exploring his hot, angry gut. Thought about their fingernails scratching light circles on the skin. Thought about them peeling away the sweatpants that were digging into him and rubbing away the angry red marks.

It was too much. He slipped a hand under the waistband and lay back—or he tried to. The full weight of gravity on his belly made him groan in pain, so he rolled onto his side. He reached a hand under his stomach and hefted it out to its full size on the sheets. It looked huge from this angle. He gazed at it from under his eyelashes, watching his hand ghosting over the gentle rolls of flesh. For a moment, he imagined himself as a king reclining on a soft mat, being fed grapes by a loyal subject. Being fed and fed, growing bigger and more powerful by the day, being bowed to as he was presented with ever-increasing offerings of food, the days passing in a blur of worship and luxury until he couldn’t even get up—but he wouldn’t need to…

Kneading the soft chub over the hard, painful lump of his stomach worked free another long belch. It went on, bouncing off the walls of the room, until he came right in the middle of it, mingling its final throes with a moan. He clutched at the expanse of his belly, squashing a handful of it in his fingers, but hardly felt the pain in the overstuffed organ over the waves of pleasure.

When he finally came to his senses, it was with a deep feeling of relief, satiation washing over him from head to toe. He was full, staggeringly so. He was warm. He was stoned, it was Saturday, and he was comfortable here with himself.

And it was time to sleep.


End file.
